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And watching her unconscious eyes following the movements
of the waiters, never staring, but taking in all that
was going on, he thought: ‘Prettiest creature
in the world!’

“Well,” he said: “What would
you like to do now—­drop into a theatre
or music-hall, or what?”

Gyp shook her head. It was so hot. Could
they just drive, and then perhaps sit in the park?
That would be lovely. It had gone dark, and
the air was not quite so exhausted—­a little
freshness of scent from the trees in the squares and
parks mingled with the fumes of dung and petrol.
Winton gave the same order he had given that long
past evening: “Knightsbridge Gate.”
It had been a hansom then, and the night air had
blown in their faces, instead of as now in these infernal
taxis, down the back of one’s neck. They
left the cab and crossed the Row; passed the end of
the Long Water, up among the trees. There, on
two chairs covered by Winton’s coat, they sat
side by side. No dew was falling yet; the heavy
leaves hung unstirring; the air was warm, sweet-smelling.
Blotted against trees or on the grass were other
couples darker than the darkness, very silent.
All was quiet save for the never-ceasing hum of traffic.
From Winton’s lips, the cigar smoke wreathed
and curled. He was dreaming. The cigar
between his teeth trembled; a long ash fell.
Mechanically he raised his hand to brush it off—­his
right hand! A voice said softly in his ear:

“Isn’t it delicious, and warm, and gloomy
black?”

Winton shivered, as one shivers recalled from dreams;
and, carefully brushing off the ash with his left
hand, he answered:

“Yes; very jolly. My cigar’s out,
though, and I haven’t a match.”

Gyp’s hand slipped through his arm.

“All these people in love, and so dark and whispery—­it
makes a sort of strangeness in the air. Don’t
you feel it?”

Winton murmured:

“No moon to-night!”

Again they were silent. A puff of wind ruffled
the leaves; the night, for a moment, seemed full of
whispering; then the sound of a giggle jarred out
and a girl’s voice:

“Oh! Chuck it, ’Arry.”

Gyp rose.

“I feel the dew now, Dad. Can we walk
on?”

They went along paths, so as not to wet her feet in
her thin shoes. And they talked. The spell
was over; the night again but a common London night;
the park a space of parching grass and gravel; the
people just clerks and shop-girls walking out.

VIII

Fiorsen’s letters were the source of one long
smile to Gyp. He missed her horribly; if only
she were there!—­and so forth—­blended
in the queerest way with the impression that he was
enjoying himself uncommonly. There were requests
for money, and careful omission of any real account
of what he was doing. Out of a balance running
rather low, she sent him remittances; this was her
holiday, too, and she could afford to pay for it.
She even sought out a shop where she could sell jewelry,
and, with a certain malicious joy, forwarded him the
proceeds. It would give him and herself another
week.